


A Hedge Against Emptiness

by Anonymous



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Pre-Keenler, but boyo clearly has feelings for her, make ressler happy again 2020, my otp is ressler/happiness, spoilers for up to mid season 6, tbh i dont know if i ship them, that being said ressler suffers for most of this fic lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: 5 times Donald Ressler is alone + 1 time he isn't
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen/Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington & Donald Ressler
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43
Collections: Anonymous





	A Hedge Against Emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> “Our frantic days are really just a hedge against emptiness.” - Tim Kreider

_i. Pre-series_

They were so close.

Pain bolts from his shoulder down his arm. Ressler bites down on the inside of his cheek and forces himself to relax and release his grip on the blanket.

_He_ was so _fucking_ close.

In the three years that they had chased Reddington around the globe, he had never stood as close to the man as he had three days ago. 

Their intel had been good. So good in fact, that they busted Reddington's arms deal (there’s a stab of vicious pleasure in knowing that he had at least cost the criminal a few million dollars). The raid had been a mess of gunshots and smoke. Ressler, however, saw a figure in a fedora slip through one of the exits and immediately gave chase straight into a grimy alley with a dead end. 

_Raymond Reddington in the flesh, standing just ten feet in front of him with his hands up beside his head. He almost pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming._

_"Agent Ressler! I can't say it's a pleasure to finally meet you." Reddington smiled, cocking his head to the side and looking almost affable. "It is awfully rude, you know, to point a gun at someone you just met."_

_"Raymond Reddington, you are under arrest-"_

_"Unfortunately for you, Donald," the criminal interrupted, "I have no intention of going into FBI custody today."_

_A sudden fire seared through his shoulder and knocked the breath out of him. He fumbled his gun and dropped onto his knees, swearing through his teeth. The pain was so intense and overwhelming that his vision whited out for a few seconds. When the world came back into focus, the muzzle of Reddington's pistol was pressed against his temple and his gun was nowhere within reach._

_"I must admit, I didn’t think I’d have to implement this exit plan. Wave hello to my friend on the roof there." He gestures in the general direction in front of him and then pumps his arm enthusiastically. "One of the best snipers I know. It's too bad he has a debilitating fondness for bourbon. But he never misses when he is sober."_

_The blood was starting to soak through the sleeve of his suit, and the world tilted a little. An eerie calmness washed over him. He drew in a ragged breath, looked Reddington in the eyes and rasped, "You're going to kill me."_

_"And end this delightful game of cat and mouse? Oh, Donald." He laughed, loud and long and bordering on irritating. When he spoke again, he sounded almost thoughtful. "You were pretty annoying this time, though, like a tenacious little chihuahua that wouldn’t let go of my pant leg. So this," he prods the wound with his gun; Donald bites down on his tongue, hard. "This is a reward. For a job well done."_

_"Wow. Thank you." He deadpanned, earning a loud chuckle from the criminal._

_"I am still enjoying this. And I still have use for you yet, Donald." The concierge's mocking smile sharpened as he patted his cheek. Ressler had to resist the very childish urge of snapping his teeth at the offending fingers. Then Reddington slammed the butt of his gun into his temple, and he was out before he even hit the ground._

Reddington's last words to him play in his mind over and over again. What does he mean, he still has use for him? What use? Did he call for an ambulance for him? His men didn't know where he was; he had run off on his own. Is he just messing with him? He runs his hand through his hair in frustration and winces when he comes into contact with the gash on his temple with a little too much force. It starts to throb in time with his pulse.

Ressler slumps back into his pillow. For one fleeting moment, he had been so sure that he would finally bring the bane of his existence in. Serves him right for being too cocky. And now, he is confined to this hospital bed for at least another couple days, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling.

If he had succeeded, he would have finally been able to tell Audrey that it is over, finally convince her that she comes first in his life. They have been fighting a lot lately. He debates calling her, recalls their last conversation and winces.

_"Babe, hi! I'm glad you called. My parents are -"_

_"I'm sorry." He interrupts, striding into the plane. "I'm really sorry. I have to cancel again with your parents. We just got a new lead and we have to leave now. Can we reschedule for next week?"_

_He finds his seat as he waits for her reply. “Don, we need to talk.”_

_His hand stills halfway through stuffing his bag into the overhead compartment. There was something in her tone - exhaustion, resignation, disappointment - that he didn't like one bit._

_He breathes in and holds it, choosing his words and failing. “I have to - the plane is - can we -” he sighs, and starts anew, “Babe, I’m sorry but I really have to leave now. We can talk when I get back? Please?”_

_A resigned sigh followed a few beats of silence. "Sure."_

_He couldn't help but feel that he had screwed up monumentally, that this is the last straw. "Love you."_

_"Bye, Don. Have a safe trip."_

Besides a perfunctory text exchange after his safe arrival in Belgrade, five days passed without one word from her. Ressler makes excuses not to text or call by burying himself in the mission. 

In reality, he is just chickenshit. 

When he lands in DC. he gathers any dregs of courage he had to call her. She doesn't pick up. Their apartment is empty. Deciding to deal with it tomorrow, he drops his bag and walks straight to the liquor cabinet.

There is a voicemail waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning.

He listens to it and he knows, from the tone of her voice, that it is over.

_ii. post 1.09 - Anslo Garrick_

_Have you ever sailed across the ocean, Donald?_

It is only the third day, and he is bored out of his skull.

He wants to, needs to get out of this bed. There was a breach at the black site, their highly valuable informant is missing and probably wielding his own brand of justice, and everything is basically...a shit show. He should be there, helping. Investigating. Doing something useful.

Instead, he is stuck here, stewing in his half-baked theories alone and willing his mincemeat of a thigh to heal faster while his team is hard at work. He had tried to argue that he can return to work in a wheelchair, and would have succeeded in bullying the doctor into discharging him had Cooper not appeared at that inopportune moment. His boss shut him up with a glare and sent the doctor off with a dismissive wave. 

He left after only a few minutes, but not before ordering Ressler to stay put in bed for at least another two weeks.

It is probably unwise to disobey Cooper again so soon.

He takes his frustration out on the Jell-O, stirring the cheap plastic spoon around and mashing the gelatin into even more unpalatable lumps. A sharp arrow of pain shoots up his thigh and he grimaces, tightening his grip on the spoon to the point of snapping it in half. He grits his teeth as the pain dulls and simmers into something far more manageable. A long exhale escapes as he closes his eyes and leans back.

_...To stand at the helm of your destiny. I want that one more time..._

Reddington’s words haunt him.

He had made his peace with dying. In between Garrick’s mockery, the blood loss, the consuming pain, and Reddington’s emergency field transfusion, Ressler accepted that he was not going to walk out of the box. And it was okay. Death in line of duty is how he intends to go out after all (even if it was at the cost of protecting his greatest enemy). 

Then Reddington just had to open his big mouth and deliver that soliloquy.

_...I want another meal in Paris at L’Ambroisie et Place de Rouge. I want another bottle of wine. And then another..._

His stomach gurgles in complaint. He scowls at the cup of destroyed Jell-O in his hand and thinks about chucking it into the bin. But he could almost hear his mom's lecture about wasting food, so he tips the contents of the cup into his mouth. It slides down his throat, slimy and simultaneously saccharine and bland. Absolutely disgusting.

He wishes he could have a burger. Or whiskey. Lots of whiskey. 

_…I want the warmth of a woman in a cool set of sheets…_

Audrey. He remembers the morning after she accepted his proposal with startling clarity. The sweet scent of her hair. The softness of her skin. Her warmth. Her smile. The way she runs her hand through his hair before she kisses him. How incandescently happy and perfectly content he was. 

He blinks and shakes his head, shoving the memories back into the recesses of his mind where they rightfully belong.

_... I want to stand on the summit and smoke cubans and feel the sun on my face for as long as I can..._

When was the last time he felt the sun on his face? It's a luxury he doesn't get to indulge in anymore.

_...most of all I want to sleep. I want to sleep like I slept when I was a boy…_

He cannot remember the last time he truly slept, the kind of deep, satisfying sleep you fall into as a child. The kind in which you wake up all groggy yet sated. 

Not after the blacklist, after Raymond fucking Reddington, after Tommy Markin, after his dad was murdered.

He tries to get comfortable, throws an arm across his eyes and wills the ache in his chest away.

_…Give me that just one time…_

Red's voice echoes in his head.

_iii. 2.06 - Mombasa Cartel episode tag_

After that incident during his youth, Ressler had spent years reining in his emotions. He cannot afford to lose control again, so he built walls and compartmentalized. It was difficult. But when he lost Audrey for the first time, something inside him shut down. He threw himself into chasing after Reddington, hunting him with a single-minded focus he didn't know he had, and the walls became almost impenetrable. 

He found himself slipping after Anslo Garrick. Excruciating near-death experiences can mess a man up. An excruciating near-death experience with Raymond Reddington as company definitely messed him up. Reddington’s inquiry on Audrey dredged up long buried feelings and memories, and he was absurdly happy when she appeared and placed herself firmly back into his life.

Then Audrey died. And something inside him snapped. Any semblance of self-control that he had cultivated went out the window; he disobeyed his boss, went against protocol, and almost murdered Jonica. The head in the box provided some closure, but he found that he was unable to repair the walls that Audrey had patiently dismantled. It was almost as if there was a gaping hole in his chest, and he was always surprised to find the skin there unblemished whenever he looked into a mirror. 

Meera's funeral was most likely the final straw. The sight of her two daughters, tears streaming down their tiny, _tiny_ faces, was almost too much for him. He wanted to bolt, wanted to run until his legs are numb and his mind is blank with exhaustion. He waited till the end of the funeral, and could not look her daughters in the eyes as he offered seemingly empty condolences. 

Was that the first night he started taking the damn pills again?

He can feel Keen’s eyes burning holes through him on the plane ride back to DC. Her concern radiates off her in thick waves. He keeps his eyes closed and digs his fingertips into his thighs, resisting the urge to tell her to back off. Maybe he ought to have opted to stay for one night over taking Reddington's private jet back. At least he could have travelled back alone. 

But he couldn't wait to get out of Bumfuck, Alaska, get back to his apartment and pretend this never happened. So he had leapt at the chance when Keen told him of Red's offer.

Now that the adrenaline has worn off, every single part of his body hurts. He can almost still feel the giant's fingers around his throat, and his ear is pulsing along with his broken thumb. A headache drums in his temples, and without the pills, he is conscious of every scrape and bruise that litters his body. 

Fucking fantastic.

Ressler doesn't even have to look at Keen to know that she is wearing the same expression she had the weeks that followed Audrey's death. He resolutely ignores her, grinds his teeth and digs his fingers even deeper.

Unsurprisingly, there is a car waiting for them when they arrive. The headache is starting to feel like someone's bashing his head in with a wooden mallet, so he acquiesces when Keen all but drags him to the car. His hands start to tremble halfway to his apartment. He jams them into the pockets of his jacket before she sees them.

They finally arrive at his apartment. She turns to him and says, "Ressler-"

"Thank you, Keen. Goodnight."

He doesn't remember how he got into his apartment, doesn't remember if he locked the door, doesn't remember how he ended up on the floor of his bathroom. He is drenched in cold sweat and shivering, the headache has progressed to bolts of lightning flashing through his skull. 

Withdrawal’s a bitch. 

The bottle of pills is burning a hole in his pocket, and he considers taking them as one last hurrah. He then contemplates banging his head against the tiles till he passes out; maybe the craving will have passed by the time he regains consciousness.

Just as he decides that a concussion is probably the last thing he needed, his stomach cramps up and bile rises in his throat. He scrambles to pull himself up and retches into the toilet. 

As he rests his forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, he wonders exactly when he had allowed his life to spiral so out of control.

_iv. 3.20 - The Artax Network episode tag_

Her death is the last thing he thinks of before he falls asleep, and the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up. 

(He sees Reddington bent over her body every time he closes his eyes. Her still, lifeless body. It had taken every fiber of his being to not storm in and intrude on the man’s grief.) 

He refuses to think about her. 

He refuses to think about her, so he dives into work. The people responsible for her death are still out there and he can’t rest until they are punished. He must have listened to that recording over fifty times, trying in vain to pick up on anything he might have missed the previous listen.

(He should have shot Solomon when he had the chance.)

And after those people are put behind bars, there are other criminals to catch. It is the one constant he can depend on, even if Reddington refuses to return and work with them. He can transfer out. Find another task force. Carry on with his job.

(He can’t let himself think about her, or he will turn to his vices like Aram did.)

There's anger simmering in his gut. He picks it out of the other indecipherable, swirling emotions and holds onto it. It is the one emotion he can deal with, knows how to deal with, so he clutches onto it. Some of it seeps out, and he is a dick to his colleagues. 

He mostly manages to hold it together till the night. Until he steps into their shared office and sees that Cooper had cleaned out her table.

Maybe it's better this way. When she was on the run, he could barely step into the room, could barely work without expecting to see her across from him every time he looked up. Her haphazard stacks of files littered the desk, so he sorted and returned them to the cabinets. He straightens her stationery, and even washed out the three mugs with varying levels of coffee and tea (because, gross, he can't just leave those out to rot) and put them away. And he still half expected her to show up and roll her eyes at him for tidying up after her. 

At least now her table is completely bare, completely devoid of her quirks. He leans against the cabinet and stares at it. There is no trace of her, nothing left to remind him of her.

It is better this way.

It is _better_ this way.

And then he finds her wooden foot massager. 

Because of course, the one thing that is left behind in the room is the one thing that would remind him the most of her. He remembers the first time she brought it in, remembers her extolling its virtues and complaining about how women shoes are just so damn uncomfortable. 

He can’t help but smile at the memory.

He gets stupid drunk that night, and wakes up on the floor of the living room cuddling an empty bottle of whiskey.

He thinks about her before he gets up to prepare for another frantic day at work.

(When he walks into work ten minutes late, Samar stares at him and he glares back. Later, she sets a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and disappears before he can scrape together a thank you. 

He doesn't deserve her kindness.)

_v. post 5.08 - Ian Garvey_

"Donald!"

He nods at Reddington, wondering how he always manages to make ‘Donald’ sound like a cheerful insult. Or when he is in a bad mood, like something vile stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Reddington prattles on but he tunes him out and looks at Keen instead. 

No change. 

In fact, with each passing week, she seems to grow paler and shrink and sink even more into the bed. The hope that she will wake up dims a little bit more with each visit.

The chatter stops and he looks back up at Reddington, who is staring at him expectantly. "What? Sorry, I was," he swallows a sudden small lump in his throat, "distracted."

There are bags under Reddington's eyes, and the lines on his face are more pronounced than usual. But his eyes gleam with some hidden knowledge, and Ressler doesn't like the way he is scrutinizing him. He feels about six years old, squirming under the firm gaze of his father after he had thrown the baseball through the window and tried to pin the blame on Robby.

He's had his suspicions that Reddington knows about Prescott for a while now. He wonders why he didn't go to him in the first place. But Reddington would probably also blackmail him for some favors if Ressler had gone to him, albeit much more politely.

(He wonders why he is such a disgrace.)

His skin is starting to itch, but Red breaks his all-knowing gaze with a small sigh as he picks up his fedora and starts towards the door.

Relieved, Ressler strides towards the chair next to the bed but a hand on his shoulder stops him. He inclines his head towards Reddington. "Talk to her, Donald." There's an almost imperceptible squeeze on his shoulder. "It helps."

He is gone before Ressler can respond.

He stands at the same spot for several long moments, feeling oddly unsettled. Rubbing a hand down his face, he sinks down into the chair. She looks so delicate, almost porcelain-like. He stares at her, past her and thinks about the last time he had seen her before...this. She had broken down when he called out to her, folding into herself. She was falling apart and he had scrambled to hold her together as panic rose in his throat. Her sobs still reverberate in his chest whenever he closes his eyes.

He berates himself for letting her out of his sight. He wishes he had never let her out of his arms. 

In spite of himself, he starts talking. His visits were always spent in silence as he ponders over what he could have done and how he could have prevented this and what he can do now. A small part of him wonders why he is talking. She can't talk back and roll her eyes at him (he even misses her eyerolls; he really needs to get a grip). She can't hear him. Can't listen to him _._

And even if she can, she doesn't need to hear about his many issues.

Maybe it is the exhaustion setting in; he finds that he is unable to stop. Everything spills out. He updates her on the progress of their investigation on Tom Keen's murder and apologizes for hitting dead end after dead end. He complains about Samar and Aram and their nauseating domesticity, and admits that he is probably just jealous. 

Try as he might, he cannot bring himself to look her in the face as he confesses. So he stares at the hideous painting of a vase of flowers on the opposite wall as he tells her about Laurel Hitchin. Henry Prescott. The dead body in the car. The evidence he suppressed. The criminals he let get away. The lies he told Navabi, Cooper, and Aram to get away with it. The guilt that is eating him inside out. The shame. The ever growing urge to start using again just to _get away_ from it for just one night.

It helps, somewhat. The talking. Not that he would ever admit it out loud.

But Ressler has never felt more alone.

_+i 6.08 - Marko Jankowics_

Ressler thinks there may be something broken in him, or at the very least something very not right.

He liked Hannah, had liked her enough to give her a key to his apartment because he wanted her around more often. They may not have met in the most ideal way, but it was...good. Pleasant. Comfortable, even. She was sweet, thoughtful, and full of wildly entertaining stories. It was nice to come back home to someone, especially someone who can maintain a steady stream of conversation with minimal input from him. 

She brought much needed levity into his life, a welcome respite from all the shit he encountered at work everyday. Without Hannah, he'd be alone with his thoughts in his empty apartment. And that has never led to anything good.

But when she dumped him he felt mostly nothing. A little relief, perhaps. He figures a normal person would feel upset, or at least some form of negative emotion like anger or sadness or disappointment. He mourns the loss of company; gets over it within the span of one drink. And then all he can think about is how Liz lied to him for months and how Reddington is not Reddington.

It is unsettling.

After a restless night, he gives up on sleeping at 4 and drives to the post office to sweat his non-feelings out at the gym. His mind is blissfully blank after almost two hours with the punching bag.

But thoughts of Liz and Reddington return with a vengeance after his shower and he pulls out all of the intel he had on Red before. He is deep in his third file when a knock on the glass of his office startles him. Keen grins at him, pointing at the large brown paper bag in her hand and gesturing at him to come out. 

He follows her to a desk outside. “You’re early.” 

“So are you,” he replies, fixing his sleeves. He eyes the bags in her hands. “What’s all this?”

“Coffee and bagels,” she announces, a wide grin plastered across her face. “And that awful scallion cream cheese you like so much.”

He raises his eyebrow at her as he loops his tie around his collar. “It’s delicious.”

“Tastes like barf.” She makes a face and he almost laughs. He peers into the bag and draws back in surprise. There must be at least ten bagels in there.

“Do you expect us to finish all of these by ourselves?”

“Figured you’ll be extra hungry after all that action the past weekend.” She says, taking a sip of her coffee. “Thank you, by the way. For ditching your girlfriend to help with the dead body. And the fake pregnant convulsing drug mule. And taking down a drug lord. And saving my sister.”

He smirks a little at that. Law breaking and missing nurse aside, it was a pretty great win. A major drug lord is off the streets _and_ the hostage is alive. “Anytime. I’ve always got your back, Keen.”

Her answering smile is brilliant, and Ressler has to look away before he does something stupid like comparing her smile to the sun. Or vowing to do everything in his power so that she can keep smiling like that. 

“So what happened with Hannah?”

“She dumped me.”

Liz sighs. “Well, that was a fun weekend. My sister left me and your girlfriend left you.”

It was fun. He wouldn’t trade the weekend for more time with Hannah, he thinks. But he is sorry that Jennifer left. Liz deserves all the (normal) family she can get. And all the happiness. "Well, guess we're not as likeable as we thought."

There's a flicker of a smile, and then her face darkens considerably. “You think we’re ever gonna find that nurse?”

He glances at her as he takes a bagel out. “My gut says no, but if you want to look, I’m ready to help.”

She opens her mouth, but the lights suddenly come on and they turn to find Aram, who looks just as surprised to see them. “Oh hey. You guys got here early.”

“Bagels. Happy Monday." He beams, and Ressler smirks a little back. Only Aram can sound so upbeat early Monday morning. "Oh, my gosh. I gotta tell you a funny story. I had the craziest weekend. You are not gonna believe this.”

He shares a look with Keen at that, lips thinning into a smile, and turns his full attention to Aram.

He and Navabi did have the craziest weekend.

**Author's Note:**

> Why don't more people like Donald Ressler? He's like a lab puppy. Fiercely loyal and cute, even when angry. 
> 
> Adorkable.


End file.
